


Once Upon a Time in the Old West

by facetofcathy



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-05
Updated: 2010-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facetofcathy/pseuds/facetofcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared is a hard-working man come to town and looking for a good time.  A particular sort of good time.</p><p>Jensen Ackles is the new man in town, the new proprietor of the general store, he's a sober and reserved fellow, and he might just be the sort Jared's looking for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon a Time in the Old West

**Author's Note:**

> The setting for this story is somewhere between the mist-edged Tombstone in the Star Trek TOS episode _Spectre of the Gun_ and historical reality. It is not meant to represent the historical Old West of any definitive time or place, but rather the collective cultural myth of the Old West as seen in everything from that Trek episode to countless films and television series.

"Hey, JT, sit your ass in the chair and get yourself around that whiskey." Kane shuffled the cards with a flourish, flashed a grin that was in no way innocent, and tipped a measure into the empty glass waiting for Jared.

Jared sat his ass down in his usual chair, downed the drink, and grinned right back. "Kane, you rattlesnake, when d'you hit town?"

"Oh, a bit ago. I've been sitting here, biding my time, waiting on some decent company."

Aldis Hodge, Chris Pine and Anton Yelchin were slouched around the next table, as they always were. They laughed at Kane's jibe, as they always did. The three of them had such sweet young faces, not that Jared was much their senior, except to Anton, but they had the look of fresh-scrubbed farm boys, new enough in town that their innocence had some reality to it still. They were itching to lose it, though, the way they circled around Kane like eager pups waiting for a chance to prove themselves. Jared had been just like them once upon a day.

"Ain't never seen you with decent folk, Kane," Jared said and winked at the boys. They all grinned back, enjoying the attention.

"You cut yourself on your own blade there, JT."

Jared smirked and leaned back, let the whiskey settle in his gut. "I've never tried to stretch the word to fit me, you know that. No easy marks on the 3:15?"

"Nah, not today. I'm thinking on sitting right here, making a meal out of the sour mash, and then maybe I'll head on upstairs while I can still walk." Kane poured them both another shot, and Jared knocked his back easily.

"Stumble, more like," he said to Kane. He might just sit through a hand or two of cards, friendly like, or as friendly a game as a man could have with Kane, but he wouldn't be heading upstairs later. The whores that ruled the second floor held no interest for him.

"You still sniffing around after the preacher's girl?" Kane said and laughed. "Hell, JT, you'll end up with an ass full of buckshot, you keep that up."

"Nah," Jared smiled, let his dimples show good and deep. "I'm harmless. Anyone can tell just by looking. I'm thinking on heading over to the mercantile before the sun dips too low. Heard it was open again."

"Damn, I swear you got more frippery than any cowboy I ever met."

"Ranch hand, Kane," Jared said for the hundredth time. "I'm all settled in and domesticated. Got my own special bunk in the bunkhouse to prove it."

"Extra long for those legs of yours, or just extra soft for that soft domesticated hide?"

Jared let Kane pay for the barb with a shot of his whiskey.

He ached in every bone, it seemed, but he had most of his wages tightly tucked inside his vest, and he could still convince himself the pain was worth the pay, most days. Easier during the weeks he was just riding the range instead of roping calves all day. He smoothed a hand down the black brocade waistcoat. Paris silk, old Charlie had claimed. Georgia cotton, more like, but it made him look a right dandy with his town shirt as white as the Chinese laundry could keep it and the finer pair of his trousers. He'd stopped for a shine on his boots at the train station before he'd come into the saloon, and he fancied he cut as fine a figure as a man could under the circumstances.

He played his few hands, let Kane take a little of his coin, won most of it back, and drank more than the difference from Kane's whiskey, so he called it good. The boys were cooing over a gun Chris had talked Anton into buying with his saved up pay. Jared had argued against the plan, strenuously, and their unwillingness to pay him any heed rankled. The town was a quiet enough place usually that Jared didn't carry a gun off the trail, and Anton was a boy still by Jared's reckoning. It irritated him enough that he left Kane to his plans, passed the boys on his way out without a word, and headed off down the wooden sidewalks of the town.

It seemed like the town doubled in size every year, but it hadn't just grown, it had changed. They had a station and the telegraph and all manner of new folks looking for a place to settle. When Jared had ridden in a few years back, looking to prove himself out from under the shadows of his father and brothers, the place had been a whistle stop with a water tower and the single saloon slouched alongside the ghosts of two others.

Before that it had been a wild frontier town sitting on the edge of the west, but the railway had pushed on to California and left them behind, and now they were reckoned to be fully civilized. The land around was tamed and sprouting fences. The town had a clutch of stores near the station, a respectable hotel that stood a proper distance from the saloon, a laundry, a church out near the old graveyard, and a scatter of houses for the folks that wanted to live in the West, but weren't cut out for the ranch life—the people the place had been civilized for. There was still room for men like Kane, but only just, and Jared, well Jared could pass for a respectable fellow if he put in the effort.

Jared kicked at a clod of dirt, sending it to skittering along. He wanted to banish his thoughts as easily. Thinking on how the town had changed, and Jared right along with it, led to thinking about Gil and his views on how much this new American civilization was worth and what it had cost to make. He forced that line of thought to one side, cut it out ruthlessly, and turned his mind to more pleasurable lines of thinking.

Jared had been idly courting the preacher's daughter, Kane had that much right, but Jess Macintosh had steel in her spine, and she wasn't falling in line with Jared's plans for an exchange of her innocence for his passion. He'd got a few of Mrs. Macintosh's good Sunday dinners out of it, so all was not wasted, but Jared was itching for a new challenge. The women upstairs from the saloon, as he'd tried to explain to Kane more times than he could count, were never a challenge for a man with coin. Jared liked to work for his rewards like he'd been raised to. He just had some different ideas as to what a fit reward was for a man like him.

The mercantile, closed for a couple of months after old Charlie finally died of the cough that had stalked him for years, had a new bright-painted sign naming it Ackles' Mercantile and Pharmacy. Jared paused and eyed the tidy display of goods in the window so clean it sparkled in the afternoon sun. He pushed open the door. Inside, the store smelled like his childhood home after his mother spent all of a Saturday scrubbing and polishing for the preacher's visit—lemon oil, lye soap and elbow grease. The dusty old plank floor was now a gleaming marvel the like of which even the hotel couldn't match, and Jared was very curious to meet this Ackles fellow who thought their dusty railroad town had such standards.

Jared wandered the aisles, not seeing much different from what old Charlie had offered, but seeing it all anew just the same. Everything was clean, shelves, floor, goods stacked in precise columns. Jared fingered one rough, barely better than homespun shirt after another. He sighed a little, yearning for something a little finer to set against his skin.

"If you're after something of a finer quality, sir, I pray you need only wait a few more days."

Jared turned to the voice, deep but quiet in its diffidence. No need to wait at all, Jared thought, as he took in the sight of the finest man he had ever laid eyes on. The man was very nicely put together, with a suit of fine dark worsted, the high collar stark white against skin of silky pale cream. No man who lived under the harsh sun here. He had soft strands of dark hair carefully slicked away from his temples, and Jared felt the urge to rough it up, or no, maybe first he'd take those slender gold-rimmed spectacles off that perfect nose, and—but it wasn't quite perfect, the man was tipping his head in silent question, and Jared saw that his nose was bent ever so slightly, and he wanted to know who had dared to mar this perfect beauty. This slender fellow was surely no brawler like Kane.

The perfect beauty was staring at him with no little alarm, eyes narrowed suspiciously as he peered over his wire rims, one long-fingered elegant hand worrying at his watch chain. Jared tried his best disarming smile, the one that had failed utterly to melt Jess's steel, but he was ever hopeful. The man seemed only relieved that Jared had roused from his fugue, and showed no sign of being impressed with Jared's charm.

"Jared Padalecki," he said, thrusting out his hand, "but my friends all call me JT."

"Mr. Padalecki," the man said, a faint smile touching his lips, and Jared wanted to see it widen, real delight not this simple empty politeness. The man took his hand, again

showing diffidence bordering on shyness, and this was the fine feel Jared had been searching for, this silk of skin, and softness of touch. "I am, of course, Mr. Ackles."

City boy for sure, was Mr. Ackles, even if he didn't sound quite like an Easterner; Jared couldn't place the accent more firmly than that. He leaned back a little, let his arm rest on the nearest shelf. "Right nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ackles." Jared tipped his hat and let his smile grow a little saucy. "Perhaps I will come back next week, see what you have on offer. I am nothing if not a fool for a bit of finery, and a man needs to indulge himself occasionally."

Ackles flicked his eyes down, danced his gaze from Jared's boots to his brocade to his black hat, never tainted with trail dust or the sweat of hard labour and sporting a wide silk band in a red dark as blood. His face remained impassive during this inspection, and Jared could only hope he appreciated what he'd seen. "I don't believe you'll be disappointed, sir," he said.

Jared didn't like being demoted to sir again, so he hooked his fingers in his belt, cocked his hip a little more jauntily. "Only if I manage to learn your Christian name, Mr. Ackles. That would make the trip to town satisfying indeed." Jared tipped his hat again and ducked back out the door before he could be pricked with another of those sirs. Mr. Ackles, now, he might just be the inspiration for a very pleasurable line of thinking.

Jared took a constitutional stroll around town, finishing up out by the cemetery where he tipped his hat to old Charlie, and then to Maryanne, who'd stepped in front of a bullet meant for Kane one rowdy night before the new sheriff had come to town. Gil, who'd had another name, one with nothing of Christ in it that Jared had never been gifted with, he was buried just outside the churchyard with no stone carved in any name to mark the spot. Jared didn't need a marker to know which tree shaded his final resting place. He sat and passed a few moments in silence, before he started talking, telling Gil all about the new and intriguing Mr. Ackles. Gil had been almost as big a talker as Jared, once they'd gotten to know each other, and Jared had never stopped his habit of telling his old friend every little bit about his life.

Jared had put a bullet in the red-faced drunk who had taken his knife to Gil one other rowdy night. That poor excuse for a Christian man was buried right next to old Charlie, and Jared had been known to piss on the grave when he was drunk enough. The world was too quiet without Gil, and likely Jess was a wise woman to keep clear of him, a man given to so much sin and not at all to repenting.

Jared knew it was time to get some food in his belly when his thoughts turned so morose, so he swatted the dry bits of grass off his trousers and walked toward the hotel. He turned his thoughts to having Mr. Ackles order him in an even better pair, something cut in the latest citified style.

The Richardson hotel had followed the railway to town and sat a little apart from the rest of the dusty wooden buildings with their simple hand-painted signs. If a man like Jared tried to get in the door of a similar establishment in Dallas or Chicago, he'd never make it past the doorman, but out here, Jared passed muster close enough, and he had negotiated a weekly rate he could afford on one of the small rooms on the third floor. He kept a few things in town, his books and his fancy town clothes and a few keepsakes, and he felt like he had a place to his name beyond his bed in the bunkhouse. He left the dubious comforts of the beds over the saloon to Kane and the other men who swelled the towns population from Friday night to Sunday afternoon. He left the dubious cuisine of Kenny, the old relic that produced chuck wagon fare out of the saloon kitchen, to those boys as well. If he'd wanted that life, he'd have stayed working his daddy's ranch down in Texas, but he'd run from that life and ended up with this one, and he meant to make the most of it.

The Maître d' at the Richardson wasn't exactly happy to see Jared. He saved his real enthusiasm for the slick city folks that occasionally stumbled off the train, but Jared was as high-class as it got some weeks, so he called him sir—it didn't sting coming from him—and seated him in a corner, not too dark, and brought him a whiskey a little smoother than Kane's favourite swill.

Jared finished a meal bland enough to make him miss the bunkhouse chow before he retired to the discreet little tap room at the rear of the hotel. They served a fine enough brew, and a man didn't have to fear for the disposition of his immortal soul if he partook like he did at the saloon.

Jared examined the bottom of a pint glass, and idly listened in on the conversation between Sheriff Morgan and Doc Collins, two of the newcomers that were helping to change the town. Too late for Gil and Maryanne, but that didn't mean it wasn't time. They were worrying over some gossip from the nearest town up the railway line—gossip that came by telegraph now. A soft voice a little nearer to hand ordered a pint, and Jared hid a grin under the brim of his hat before he turned his head and said, "Why, Mr. Ackles, fancy meeting you here."

"Ah," the man said, turning to Jared and then glancing away quickly. He tugged at his immaculate coat, ran his fingers over his silver watch chain. "Mr. Padalecki."

Jared smiled, pleased that his new friend had gotten the name right after only one hearing, and doubly pleased at the promotion up from sir again. Jared slid a half step closer along the bar, watched the barman deliver the pint. "Please, if you don't feel kindly enough disposed to call me JT, I'll settle for Jared."

"Right, Jared, yes. Ah, Jensen. I am, that is, Jensen."

Jared watched Jensen blush and duck his head slightly before straightening and resuming his former straight posture.

"Well, now, Jensen, that might have been a mistake giving that name away so soon. I may not drop by your fine establishment next week after all." Jared signalled to the barmen for another pint. His blood was thrumming with excitement at just this much of a chance to spend more time with Jensen—he savoured the name—any fatigue he'd felt earlier had dropped well back on the trail now.

"I think it's a risk I am able to take, Jared," Jensen said, looking up through his lashes. He took a sip of his ale and glanced at Jared again.

"Are you a risk taking man, Jensen?"

"A calculated risk, carefully considered, is sometimes the best option," Jensen answered promptly.

"And you carefully considered and calculated my likelihood of returning?"

"It is my business."

"Ah, business," Jared said and nodded sagely.

Jensen glanced up again quickly, and a smile played on his lips. Jared was getting very enamoured of those small smiles.

"You don't live in town then?" Jensen asked.

"No, no, for my sins—so many sins—I'm a ranch hand out at the Harris place."

Jensen flicked his gaze over Jared, the same up and down inventory he'd taken earlier.

"I like to spruce up in town, Jensen. A man needs to take pride in his appearance."

Jensen looked down at his beer, tugged self consciously at his sober coat. For all his fidgeting, he looked at home in his merchant's suit. Jared never felt like he had enough of the grime scrubbed off when he pulled on his fine clothes, and he favoured a flashy appearance at odds with the newly respectable town, but he couldn't bring himself to dress as soberly as propriety dictated.

Jared had finished his ale, wanted another, wanted to tarry at the bar as long as Jensen would tarry with him, the soft drone of Morgan's voice peppered with Doc's lighter faster replies a gentle background, comfortable and familiar. But he knew that making Jensen tire of him so soon was not the way to his heart, or any other organ, so he stood up preparing to leave and hoped he was leaving Jensen wanting more. "Well, Mr. Ackles," Jared said, leaning in and dropping his voice, as if he was sharing some intimate secret, "I think I hear my bed calling out to me."

He was richly rewarded for his tactical choice when Jensen ducked his head and fidgeted with his watch chain, seemingly rendered speechless. He rallied enough to offer a quiet good night.

Jared headed up the stairs to his lodgings whistling tunelessly and planning his Sunday in town. He was going to make one of his rare appearances in church just on the off chance he'd find some good company there. After that, fate would decide for him how he'd while away a Sunday afternoon.

* * *

Jared rode into town the next Saturday sore and aching, later than he usually was, and he headed for the hotel first. He paid extra for the use of a bathing room and folded his body into the tub—it was too small, but the water was hot. He spent a longer time than usual coming his hair and tying it neatly at the back. He changed into his better clothes, but knew he'd never have time to go back to the train station for a proper shine on his boots if he wanted to be sure to get a look in at Ackles' before Jensen closed up.

He sauntered up the sidewalk, boot heels clapping against the wood. He affected his usual easy, sunny manner, but he was annoyed that the quick swipe of his bandanna hadn't done much against the dust on his boots; he didn't like leaving important details not seen to. He reckoned he was worrying about Jensen's opinion of his grooming, which was even more worrying. Jared gave himself a few mental kicks and sailed into the Mercantile with a wide smile and his hand on his hat to tip to any ladies, or fair-looking gentlemen, he might find within.

The brass bell jingled as the door shut behind him. It was too late to duck back out as three sets of eyes were fixed on him quite firmly—two ladies and one very fair gentleman.

"Mrs. Macintosh, Miss Jess, it is a pleasure," Jared said, doffing his hat completely and stepping forward to very nearly bow over the hand of the preacher's wife.

Jensen watched this performance with his usual barely-there smile and a slightly knowing look to his eyes. Jared thought the little devil might actually be enjoying his discomfort. Jess certainly was. She had most definitely seen him the previous Sunday, ambling out of church at just the right time to intercept Miss Amelia Duncan and Miss Lisabeth Cody before they could corner Jensen. Knowing Jess she had also seen him escort Mr. Ackles home to protect him from the predatory town ladies, thrilled to find a single man in town of a sort better than Jared's.

"Shall we, Mother?" Jess said, and nodded to the door. "I think we've taken up enough of Mr. Ackles' time today, and I'm sure Mr. Padalecki has all manner of masculine fripperies he needs to discuss the purchase of."

Jared leaned one hip onto the counter and crossed his arms, not coincidentally putting his head down closer to Jensen. He turned and smiled wide, and nodded back at the closing door. "Masculine fripperies," he said. "I'm sure I don't know what she means."

Jensen reached out one finger, tapping the silk band on Jared's hat where it dangled from his fingers, and said very seriously, "No, indeed. I do have several catalogues that might interest you. I have suppliers in Houston, Dallas, San Francisco."

"Jensen, you are spoiling me," he said, and Jensen turned away to retrieve said catalogues.

Jared dallied a pleasant hour with Jensen talking over fripperies, often quite masculine in nature, and other such nonsense. When the store was empty of other customers, some of Jensen's habitual stiffness and diffidence left him, and he smiled more, laughed at some of Jared's outrageous jokes and slid the occasional clever remark into the conversation.

The chase was always the thing with Jared, always what held his interest, and if the prey was not interested, like Jess, he lost his. Gil proved the exception by becoming one of Jared's closest friends. But with Jensen, he was finding the chase to be more intoxicating than ever. He hadn't even spared a thought for Kane or the boys most likely warming their usual tables in the saloon. Jared could not suggest Jensen accompany him there; the respectable townsfolk would not approve, and Jensen really didn't seem the saloon type anyway. Of course, if he was, Jared likely wouldn't be interested, he'd never wanted to twine together his saloon friends and his other pastimes, not since Gil at any rate.

Time was approaching for Jared to think on how he was to spend the rest of his evening, no matter how much fun he was having with Jensen. Jensen bustled around behind the counter, setting things precisely to rights; the store had never been so ordered and tidy under old Charlie's care. Jared watched him out of the corner of his eye, and when Jensen moved from merely fondling the chain to taking his watch out to check the time, Jared straightened and spun his hat with a lazy flick of his fingers. "I best be moving along, let you get to closing up," he said.

"Well, yes," Jensen said, "not that you're not welcome, but I do have things to see to."

"Money to squirrel away, secret stash of naughty French postcards to lock up," Jared said, and Jensen glared at him; he'd taken to doing that more often than ducking his head in embarrassment when Jared said something a bit risqué. Jared took it as a good sign.

"I'll mosey along, then," Jared said and settled his hat on his head and walked to the door.

"Are you—that is, I'm given to understand that you regularly take dinner at the hotel, and ..."

Jared got his triumphant grin under control before he turned back around. Jensen was carefully aligning the perfectly straight row of jars of hard candy sticks on the counter and didn't look ready to finish that thought. Jared strode back across the wooden floor, and snatched a peppermint stick out of its jar and tapped it against his bottom lip. Jensen watched his every move; Jared had seen that same wary look on a small rodent trapped in a barn by a hungry tabby cat. "I am rather fond of their fare," Jared said, and sucked the hard candy into his mouth and held it between his lips like a cigarillo.

"I found it pleasant enough," Jensen said.

"Well since we've got that sorted, I'll just be going." Jared turned back around.

He'd made it back to the door when Jensen said, "Wait, you, ah, owe me for the candy."

"I do at that. I thought perhaps you'd trust me to pay up in due time. Most folks think I have an honest face."

"Do they," Jensen said.

Jared grinned at Jensen's sour answer, and tossed a coin across the few yards that separated them. Jensen snatched it out of the air with a quick flick of his wrist, and it disappeared into his waistcoat pocket just as fast.

"I was considering asking you to join me. For dinner. At the hotel," Jensen said.

"Considering. Always wise to consider these things. Have you decided?"

"I think I might be reconsidering."

"Ah, see, even my momma used to say that a little bit of me went a long way. Trouble is nothing about me's so little." Jared grinned around the peppermint stick and Jensen narrowed his eyes and sighed heavily. Jensen refusing to rise to the bait was almost as much fun as the occasions when he couldn't help himself. "Maybe I should just simplify your considering," Jared said. "Mr. Ackles, will you join me for dinner this evening?"

Jensen did duck his head at that and had to bite away the smile that was threatening to form. Jared eyed those teeth sunk into a plush lip and did some sighing of his own. "I will, yes, yes. I will," Jensen said.

"Well as long as you're sure, now," Jared said, and got himself on the outside of the door, before anyone could do any more considering or reconsidering, or any other dangerous kind of thinking.

Jared had cornered the Maître d' at the hotel and asked for a secluded corner with the lamps dimmed. A smile and a few coins had got him what he wanted, so the soft glow of oil light painted Jensen's face gold and rose-red as he took nearly delicate sips of the whiskey Jared had insisted he try. Jared watched him, thinking that there was barely enough liquid in each little sip to do more than evaporate on his tongue. His mouth would taste of sweet Kentucky summers and sweet wood smoke, Jared reckoned.

"Should I call Doctor Collins for you?" Jensen asked.

"Why ever for?" Jared said, leaning back and slinging a casual arm over the back of the chair. Jensen's eyes were dancing behind his spectacles, but his face was a mask of concern.

"You've been quiet for''—and damn the man if he didn't pull out his watch—"seventeen minutes."

"I dispute your number, sir," Jared said.

"Ah, it is sir now, is it?" Jensen said.

"Perhaps imp is more appropriate."

"You were unnaturally silent, Jared," Jensen said, putting special emphasis on his name.

"A man is entitled to the occasional moment of introspection."

"Perhaps you should write these sayings of yours down. I know of a publisher in New York you could send it to. You could entitle your work _On the Nature of Man in the New West_."

Jared narrowed his eyes and said, "An imp with a sharp tongue."

"Also the man who is going to write to Devlin and Sons of San Francisco with your rather impressive order. I could change some of the details, opt for some more sober colours, some harsher fabrics, if I was of a mind."

"That would make you a cruel and heartless blackmailer."

"Perhaps that's what I am," Jensen said and sipped again at his whiskey.

Jared would have laughed at that absurdity he'd been sure Jensen wouldn't take it amiss. "I don't think so. I think there's a heart there, one that beats with a true passion and doesn't know anything of cruelty."

Jensen looked almost taken aback at Jared's words, and he tilted his head and spoke thoughtfully. "All men know of cruelty in this world, this not so New West or the Old World, it makes no difference."

"Maybe so," Jared said, waving the words away as unimportant, "but not every man truly knows passion. It takes a special kind of heart for that."

"And you think that's the sort of organ that beats inside my feeble chest."

"Not so feeble," Jared said, and let his gaze wander along the line of Jensen's broad shoulders. The Jensen that lived in Jared's mind, the one he planned and schemed over, sometimes seemed not so broad and strong. Jared allowed himself another frankly measuring gaze, trying to set his mind's eye to rights. Something special was hiding inside that sober suit, Jared knew that for certain.

Jensen looked away, skin flushed with whiskey and perhaps some hot sort of emotion as well. "I think it's time I headed home."

"You require an escort?" Jared asked, grinning so Jensen could take it as a joke if he was of a mind to.

"I don't believe so, but you're welcome to watch me from the doorway with a worried frown," he said. When Jared just raised a brow, he added, "My mother used to behave so when she sent me off to school."

"Well then, I think I just might do that." Jared stood and ushered Jensen ahead of him towards the back of the dining room.

At the end of a narrow corridor, alongside the taproom, a door let out onto the packed dirt alleyway that ran behind the buildings that lined the main street. The corridor was deserted; it was too early for the taproom to be giving up the quiet, serious drinkers who frequented it.

Jensen reached for the door handle, and Jared reached out to hold the door closed. He bracketed Jensen into the corner with one arm braced on the door, the spread of his shoulders keeping Jensen penned in. "I wanted you to know," Jared said, and lifted his hand, "that my feelings for you are not maternal in nature." Jensen huffed out a quick laugh, and watched, wide-eyed as Jared let one knuckle drag down the soft skin of Jensen's face, scraping through the stubbled cheek, and ending very near to the soft bottom lip Jensen liked to chew on when he was holding back his words.

"More filial, then?" Jensen said, voice perfectly steady, face more flushed than ever.

"Not that either," Jared answered. He wanted to touch that plush lip, let the rough skin of his hands catch on the soft smoothness, let his mouth go hard and urgent to taste and touch and learn the terrain, but not here, not in some back hallway. He was not playing some game of scandal and ruined reputations; he had other goals in mind. Jared jerked back, nearly braining himself on the lamp behind him, and wrenched the door open. The cooler evening air rushed in and scoured his hot, flushed face. "Go on then," he said, tone not too different to the one he used on the ranch hounds.

Jensen straightened up and his face was impassive, serious. "Be sure to watch and try to note the tenor of your response. Perhaps you will care to describe it to me tomorrow after the preacher explains sin to us again."

"I understand sin just fine," Jared said and made a shooing motion that Jensen obeyed only after a long, considering look.

~~*~~

Jared rolled out of bed and cleaned himself up well enough with the basin of tepid water and the softer soap he indulged in when in town. Nothing short of a life off the ranch was going to make any real dent in the roughness of his hands or the sun and wind scoured complexion of his face. But that didn't stop him from primping in front of the simple mirror that hung above the washstand.

He dug through the drawer of trifles he'd collected, selecting a brightly dyed feather for his hat band. He found a neckerchief in the same shade of blue and tied it on, letting his collar hang open. Perhaps he would garner some glances of disapproval from the finer folks in town; it would be some compensation for the early hour.

He joined the flocking faithful on the short trek from town to church. It was the habit of the townsfolk to walk the short distance across the meadow that separated the town from the church. Back in the wild old days, the church builders had wanted to be as far away from the saloons as possible, so they'd set the small building against the trees and scrub that led down to the river valley. Jared was chagrined to find himself a more regular church-goer now than when he'd been trying his hand at wooing the preacher's daughter. He wasn't finding it did much to curb his sinful thoughts, but he wasn't really trying either.

Jared slipped off his hat and wouldn't have been able to curb the urge to spin it on the tips of his fingers even if he'd been of a mind to. He smoothed back his hair and stepped up to take a pew near the front. He spread around a few friendly ma'ams and sirs and kept his face attentive through the service. Edwin Macintosh favoured him with a long look during his stirring oratory on the sin of pride. Jared flattered himself with the fancy that the man had made it up on the spot when he'd spied Jared's spit and polish and bits of frippery gracing his house of worship.

When Macintosh released them to go forth into the world anew, Jared stepped a little lively and leaned against the big walnut that put him out of the way, but in full view of the rest of the folk making their way more slowly back to town. He tipped his hat down against the sun and waited.

He knew Jensen was coming before he heard him properly. It was like the change in the air before a storm, Jared reckoned, the way the hair on his arms stood up.

"Such quiet repose is unlike you," Jensen said.

"A man needs to stop and let the sun warm his bones, especially when he's dragged himself out of a comfortable bed at such an unholy hour."

"I have seen you in church before, and I was given to understand that days on a ranch started before the dawn."

"This ain't no ranch, Jensen, and when a man goes to town his days are supposed to end just before the dawn." Jared stood up tall, tipped his hat back into alignment, and took in the sight of Jensen in his church-going, sober refinement.

He gazed levelly at Jared, measuring in his turn. "I see," Jensen said and turned half away, stepped a pace toward town. "There are rooms behind the store. They aren't much, no great luxuries, and the place is a bit cramped, but I have eggs from Mrs. Gutierrez, and summer sausage from Dietmeier Schneider and some of the biscuits that Mrs. Roarke brings into the store every Saturday.

"Why, Jensen, are you offering to cook for me?"

"I'm considering it."

"I must do something about this tendency you have towards excess caution."

"A man needs to consider his actions carefully," Jensen said primly.

"As long he gets round to taking them, I suppose, that's all well and good." Jared caught a flash of colour and turned to see Miss Cody and Miss Duncan chattering together, arm in arm, sun bright on their softly coloured Sunday dresses. Jared steered Jensen in a gentle amble that would take them a good few yards in the opposite direction before he angled them back towards town.

Jensen's rooms were tiny, but absent of much in the way of furnishings, they weren't cramped. The back door led right into the kitchen, where he had a homesteader's simple table and chairs, a small sideboard and a wood stove next to a sink stand and pump. It was nothing like the big bunkhouse kitchen with its roaring open hearth and old scarred tables and benches, noisy and chaotic with a dozen or so men, all speaking in a clamour of languages. Jared could parse out the Spanish and the Comanche tongue if he took it slow, but the German was beyond him. Still, he was at ease there with the rough working men. Here with Jensen, alone with Jensen, Jared was not so sure of himself.

Jensen moved around with the same precision he showed behind the counter in his store, cracking eggs and setting sausages to sizzling. Jared sipped at the weak tea Jensen had poured out for him and wished for a whiskey and a look behind the tantalizing curtain that hid the bedroom from view.

Jensen set a plate piled high with biscuits and eggs and sausage in front of Jared and one slightly less luxuriously filled plate at his own place. There were pots of butter and honey on the table, and a kettle of tea in easy reach. "I hope that's sufficient for your appetites," Jensen said.

"A man has to eat," Jared said and dug in enthusiastically.

"A man can learn restraint."

Jared glanced over at Jensen. "A man needs to live, big as the sky, wide as the horizon."

Jensen peered at him over his glasses. "A man can appreciate refinement, virtue, and discretion."

"A man should enjoy life before it's gone."

Jensen paused, cup of tea halfway back to the table. He set it down carefully, turned the handle to some precise point only he knew the significance of. "There are many kinds of enjoyments," he said. "The satisfaction of a job well done, for example."

"Satisfaction is important," Jared said, and he dipped his finger in the smear of honey on his plate, licked the sticky sweetness until his skin was clean. "There are many ways to acquire it."

Jensen was watching him, gaze darting to his hands, his face, his lips. Jensen's face was flushed—the heat of the stove in the tiny room, no doubt. "Fleeting pleasure that does not endure provides no true measure of satisfaction." he said.

Jared leaned back, had to look up at the rough plank ceiling, make a show of studying the joinery to cool down his thoughts. "Pleasure is meant to be fleeting, it is the anticipation of its return that lasts."

"In the way of a forty-niner anticipating the next pan of silt will be full of gold to make him rich?" Jensen raised one brow, and watched Jared calmly, his fingers caressing the silver chain of his watch.

"The way a taste of honey, once known, can never not be longed for," Jared said, trying to make his voice as deep and his tone as considered as Jensen was managing. He leaned forward again, took another measure of the amber liquid on one finger, only this time he held it out to Jensen to accept or deny.

He accepted it.

Jared held himself in check while Jensen scraped the sweetness from his skin. He watched as Jensen swallowed, darted his tongue out to claim any lingering taste on his lips, and Jared wondered if it was sweet golden honey he was searching for, or the salt tang of Jared's skin.

He knew what he needed to do here, he'd brought things to a boil and now he needed to bank the coals again, get Jensen back to a low simmer, let him anticipate for a while, let him feel the desire build until he was in the place where he could never say no to whatever Jared wanted to take from him. He turned away, and he fancied he could hear the snap of the tension in the air. He stood up abruptly, setting the crockery to rattling and the silver tumbling to the floor. "I think I've imposed on your kind hospitality long enough," he said, settling his hat on his head and aiming a vacant and friendly smile over Jensen's left shoulder.

One long stride had him at the door, but Jensen was faster, jumping up in a burst of movement that didn't disturb even the dust motes hanging in the sunlight. He had his back to the door, his whole body blocking Jared's exit. The slender cut of his dour suits hid a strong breadth of back, Jared recalled to mind, and he would have a time of it, wrestling Jensen away from the door to make good his escape.

"I'm not quite ready to let you go, Jared," he said evenly. "You see, I am a man of science, a man of learning, and your theories interest me."

"A man of science," Jared said dubiously, seeking to match Jensen's controlled tone. He stepped closer to Jensen, leaned on one hand pressed flat against the door above Jensen's head. It was a contest, then, to see who could hold the door closed the more firmly.

"Indeed, and as a man of science I believe your theories require more testing."

"Testing?"

"Exactly. Would you buy a new hat without trying it on first? No, you would test it for fit and, in your case, sufficient excess of design, and it is the same way with ideas."

"Like a hat?" Jared said, choosing to let the more slanderous of Jensen's remarks pass by unchallenged.

"Just like a hat, and I wish to test your theory in the same way. You say that anticipation is heightened by knowing a pleasure, while the more common wisdom would tell us that it is the mystery of the unknown, the yearning for the unattained, the apple not yet tasted, that stirs the blood."

Jared leaned in, let his voice drop to barely a whisper, and hoped the tremor in his hands had not travelled to his vocal chords. "And what, exactly, is to be your apple? As your test."

Jensen's hands, they'd been pressed flat to the wood of the door, and now they bracketed Jared's face, tugging him down, pulling him gently, softly, sweetly against Jensen's lips. It was Jared's turn to search for a taste of golden honey sweetness, but he found only Jensen, soft skin, lips, slick tongue making way for his and such depth of warmth and heat. A taste he would never not long for. A taste he was drowning in, lured under by soft hands and carefully considered words.

He was turning the kiss rougher, demanding, not at all what he would have planned for their first time, but Jensen was shattering all his plans and considered schemes, and he had to back off, step away. He needed to cool down, or he was going to boil right over and destroy his chances of getting what he wanted. He wrenched away from Jensen, pushed him not very gently off the door, and escaped into the searing heat of midday. Dust choked his throat and he coughed as he stumbled towards the saloon.

It'd be open, it never really closed, Lord's day or not, and Jared needed rotgut whiskey and a hand or two of poker with Kane's marked deck and some sweet-faced boys like Anton and his pals who weren't really sweet at all. He needed the safety of the gloomy back table with its familiar scratches and stains. He needed rough and vulgar voices and no one considering their words before they spoke.

* * *

Jared had been drunk when he'd let his horse bring him back to the Harris ranch on Sunday night. He'd made so much clatter, he'd set the hounds to barking and roused half the bunkhouse. He'd got no sympathy the next morning for his sore head or his sand-filled eyes, rather he'd learnt a new set of curse words (German) and reacquainted himself with some he hadn't heard in a while (mostly Spanish). He'd given back as good as he'd got, once he'd dunked his head in the horse trough and recovered the power of speech, and he'd failed to shake the surly, simmering orneriness all through the week. Ms. Harris had told him to haul his ass out of his bunk before the cock crowed on Saturday and to get the hell off her land. She'd had dire predictions for his fate if he showed up in the same state again, so he'd vowed to give Kane's whiskey a wide berth. He wasn't the first man to blame the demon drink for troubles of his own making.

He arrived in town so early, there was barely anyone stirring except Chuck from the telegraph office stumbling home from a night keeping company with the wires. Jared climbed the stairs to his hotel room, stripped out of his dirt-smeared work clothes and eased himself into the too-soft bed for another try at sleep. Just like every other night for the past six his mind tried to fix on Jensen and shy away at the same time. He couldn't think about anything else, and he couldn't bear to dwell on what had transpired in Jensen's kitchen.

Some time later, Jared rolled out of bed with a groan; he'd managed a restless doze that left him itching to remember what he'd dreamt. A bath, a change into his fresh-starched, white shirt, his good trousers and waistcoat, and he felt more like he could face the day. He picked up his hat from the bedpost where it spent most weeks waiting on his return, and ran his finger over the bright feather still stuck in the band. He damn near plucked it out; it didn't suit his mood, but it was what folk expected.

Jared took the long way to the station, avoiding all of the town, not just Ackles' Mercantile. The shoeshine boy was occupied with Doc Collins. "Mornin' Doc," he said, aiming for friendly.

"JT. You're around early this week," the doc said.

Jared grimaced, and then tried one of his trademark grins. Doc looked like he was going to accept it for the genuine article. "Well now, if memory serves, and it really doesn't, I think I'm into Kane and my pal Hodge for a good sum of coin after last Sunday's friendly game. I was fixing on getting some grub and then finding a clean deck of cards before the pair of them put in an appearance this morning."

"Well good luck with that," Collins said. He looked over the shine on his boots, and satisfied, he climbed down to lay a friendly slap to Jared's shoulder. "I think even Morgan uses a marked deck."

Jared kept his thoughts on cards and recouping his losses while the boy did his best with Jared's boots. He took his time over his breakfast, considered the wisdom of washing it down with something other than coffee, decided he wasn't that far gone, and then found himself wandering out to talk to Gil for a spell.

Hodge and Kane were both hunched over a pot of Kenny's thick and bitter brew when Jared pushed open the doors to the saloon. He'd taken the scenic route back from Gil's grave and still hadn't passed withing eye-shot of Ackles' front window.

"JT," Kane said, when he pulled up a chair and poured out a cup of coffee. Aldis hadn't moved from his slumped examination of the black surface of the liquid in his cup.

"What's bit his ass?" Jared asked.

"The usual," Kane said. "Women are the downfall of all men, JT."

Jared could explain how men were little different, but he'd save that pearl of wisdom for another day. Besides, Aldis was muttering into his coffee, something about a golden-haired goddess, and Jared figured someone else's troubles were a hell of a lot more interesting than his own. "Who's a golden-haired goddess?" he said.

"Some Fraulein he's spotted. Don't encourage him, he never shuts up about her."

"Goddess," Aldis said firmly. "Her name is Beth, and she's beautiful and funny, and—"

"Doesn't speak a word of English," Kane said.

"Really?" Jared asked, and Aldis nodded soberly.

"German's a hard one. We've got three German fellows now, out at the Harris place, and all I've learnt so far is the word for shit."

"You've got German ranch hands?" Aldis said, and his face had the calculating cast to it that he got when he was holding a good hand, or bluffing that he was. He wasn't a bad bluffer. Got better the more whiskey Jared had in him. "You taking on any men?"

"Yeah," Jared said slowly. "But you have a job, Hodge."

"I hate the damn railroad, JT, you have no idea, really, no idea. I only took the job to make my father happy, and he's pulled up stakes and moved to Oklahoma, so..."

"Thought you couldn't ride anymore," Jared said.

"No, no—see, I can't ride rodeo, trick stuff, but regular ranch work? Hell, that's nothing. I was in a damn field all the hours of the day before I could walk, JT. Ranch work ain't nothing."

"Says the man who thinks riding a little old mustang bronc all decked out in fringes and silver buckles is a hard ride."

"Shut up, JT, everybody knows no one out at the Harris place gets a look in when the colts need breaking, not when you're around."

Jared had to concede the point. Saddle breaking was a pleasure he reserved for himself. "Well hell, Aldis, you want to come scuff in the dirt out at the Harris place just so you can learn what being turned down sounds like in German, who the hell am I to argue?"

"Your confidence is uplifting, JT. Uplifting." Aldis leaned back and gave Jared a speculative look. Jared didn't have a corner on the market for preferring someone else's troubles to his own. "Care to explain why you were such a miserable cuss last Sunday?"

"Care to deal the cards Kane?" Jared said, turning away from Aldis and his optimism and his questions.

"And this is why I prefer the professional ladies, boys. They never make you do something stupid," Kane said, but he dealt the cards, so Jared let that whopper go.

Jared's quiet table at the hotel was a little too quiet for one man, and his dinner sat like ash in his gut. Even the lingering pleasure from taking Kane and Hodge for what he'd been down and then some wasn't helping. He was honest enough to admit he'd been hiding in the saloon all day, not just playing poker. He considered bribing the waiter to let him take a bottle of whiskey upstairs, but he was not a man to mope around like a wounded calf. Not over one kiss with a man he was just playing around with. He hauled himself to his feet, slapped his hat against his thigh and tried to amble slowly towards the taproom, not stomp like an ornery bear.

An ale half in the glass and half in his gut helped some. He closed his eyes, listened to the soft laughter of Doc Collins that greeted one of Sheriff Morgan's more unlikely tales. No one really believed he'd been a deputy in Tombstone, but if you expressed your disbelief, he'd just smile and say, 'Son, you can believe what you like on it, I find people generally do that no matter what I say, but the truth's still the truth.'

"Mr. Padalecki," Jensen said quietly and evenly.

Jared had heard him come in, known it was him, felt him step up to the bar a long-arm's reach away and lean one elbow on the polished wood. Jared opened his eyes, took a long considering drink of his ale. He knew his choices, how to keep the game going and how to end it. The right move was to smile, a little cheeky and a little bit dirty, and lean in and say something like, 'Now don't be like that. I much prefer the way my Christian name falls off your lips.' The smart move was to tip his hat and run for it.

Jared turned his body so he was facing Jensen full on. He leaned one hip up against the bar and answered in as near the same tone Jensen had employed as he could muster. "Mr. Ackles."

Jensen started a little and glanced over briefly. He spent some time considering the surface of his own ale. "I trust all is well," he said.

"Well enough, Mr. Ackles. And with you as well, it is my sincere hope."

"Indeed," Jensen said.

"I will confess that I have found this last week a trial, and I warrant Miss Harris will say it was even more so for her," Jared said, just a little alarmed at the truth rolling off his tongue as easy as a silk and satin falsehood.

"They say that the life of a rancher is a trial fit for Job these days," Jensen said.

"Oh, I take all the blame upon myself, Mr. Ackles. It was my own black and sour temper that put us all under a storm cloud these last few days."

"And that has passed?"

"No it hasn't passed," Jared said, and realized he was losing his battle for calm and control. Sheriff Morgan was giving him a hard look. Jared made a quelling gesture in his direction, drank his pint dry, and set the glass carefully back down. "I have proven several things this week, Mr. Ackles. One is that my theories, as you termed them, are most certainly correct. Another is that my temper isn't the soft and easy thing it once was. In fact, Mr. Ackles, I think I had best take my leave before I find myself with your blood on my knuckles."

Jared pushed off from the bar and walked out, aiming more for the long stride of a man needing to be elsewhere, than any sort of pretence of ease. He tipped his hat at Morgan on the way by, the only apology for his intemperance he could offer.

Jared threw his hat at the bedpost, grimly and perversely satisfied when it sailed wide and landed on the floor. He slopped water into the basin and splashed his face, his hair and shirt cuffs taking up most of the excess. He needed a fight, but he didn't want to subject himself to the scrutiny of Kane's knowing gaze getting it. Or Hodge's probing questions.

His door opened and then quietly clicked shut again. "I find your statements most curious, Mr. Padalecki," Jensen said in the same manner of quiet seriousness he'd employed to drive Jared near to madness downstairs.

"Do you?" Jared said, when he should just be picking Jensen up and throwing him out the door again. He stayed where he was. Getting too close was a bad idea.

"Most curious. I don't dispute your conclusions, I myself share them after much independent consideration." Jensen looked up and fixed Jared with a burning glare. "What I find curious, is your determination to, to—" Jensen paused and fisted his hands in frustration. "Damn you, Jared. You are the most—" He made a noise that was more the growl of an angry animal than something a proper man such as himself was wont to utter, and he turned and paced to the door.

Jared was poised to stop him, or maybe he was poised to run and lock the door after him if he left. Hell, maybe he should just make a break for the damn window, and have done with it.

Jensen turned and stormed up to Jared; he was close enough that Jared could see the smears on his lenses. "I want you," he said, and he raised a hand, trembling horribly, to touch one finger to Jared's face. His eyes were an angry storm of emotion, too much to bear.

Jared closed his eyes to it, to all of it. He considered just spending the rest of his days standing there, eyes shut tight, letting all of the world pass him by. He felt the breath of air, heard the rustle of cloth that meant Jensen was turning to leave him to his misery. He reached out, snatching wildly, half blind in the dim lantern light, and he caught hold of one muscled arm. He tugged, and Jensen cursed quietly.

"Jensen, I—" Jared said, and Jensen growled at him, grabbed him with careless hands and tugged his head down.

"Jared," he said, and pulled harder, until Jared gave in and let Jensen kiss him.

It was soft for the barest moment, and then Jensen forced his way in, devouring, making sounds of hunger and desire, and Jared had known animals like this—hot blooded colts that fooled a man with a placid demeanour in the paddock, but show them just the hint of freedom and they'd take the bit in their teeth and run with it. He'd rarely known a man to run so hot so suddenly, and Jared was just holding on for this ride. He let Jensen lead him, let him press their bodies tight, let him make clear how hard and hungry and wanting they both were.

Jared believed he needed to stop this. He pulled away and pushed at Jensen, but Jensen held fast, and he tumbled back to lean heavily against the bedpost, not enough distance gained. Jensen was glaring fire, over the hand that wiped at his mouth.

"I can't, Jensen, I can't do this and not keep going."

"I never said I wanted you to stop," Jensen shouted at him, the polite gloss over his anger burned away like tinder.

"You don't know what you're saying, you don't know what—"

Jensen narrowed his eyes, took a step forward. "Jared," he said softly, and from somewhere he found a smile, and Jared wanted to cry at its tremulousness. "I don't care what, I just—anything you wish to attain, Jared, I wish to give you."

"Jensen," Jared said quietly. Jensen didn't know the bargain he was making, and Jared had never felt a win so sour in his gut.

"Yes, Jared. The answer is yes."

"No—"

"Yes," Jensen said, and he started working at the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers flying as he stripped out of his coat, his waistcoat, and then began on his shirt. "Yes," he said, firmly, repeating the word each time a bit of his respectable suit hit the floor.

Jensen, with his shirt and suspenders hanging, the ruin of his clothes around his feet was temptation in human form. Jared gave in, not even knowing anymore the source of his earlier fears. He had been right about everything; Jensen did have an extraordinary body hiding under all that brown worsted, and Jared had done exactly what he'd needed to to make him reveal it.

Jared touched and tasted and let Jensen tell him when he needed to shed his own clothes, and when he needed to climb into the bed, and when he needed to touch with more intent and less wonder, but never any less joy. He'd given away the better part of his will, and he didn't try to retrieve it.

Jared was well sated, but Jensen was indulging his scientific mind. His hands never left Jared's skin as he explored, eyes flicking to Jared's face, to his chest when a flush of renewed arousal took him, to his thighs when the goose flesh rose in the wake of Jensen's questing hand, to his prick when it roused to the occasion for the second time.

"I wish to try my hand at, well, not my hand exactly," Jensen said, and he ducked to hide his smile, and Jared tipped his head back up with a firm finger under his chin.

He'd had enough of the half hidden smiles, he'd had a taste of the full force of Jensen's regard, and he'd taken to anticipating its return.

"I wish," Jensen started again, "to try that thing you did with your mouth. I wish to learn the skill of it."

"It's pretty hard to do it wrong, long's you watch your teeth."

"Indeed," Jensen said, and then he slithered down the bed and examined Jared's near fully-aroused prick for a time. Not too long a time. "Tell me if I start down the wrong trail," Jensen said with a wry look, and then he touched his tongue to the head for a bare moment before he opened his mouth and took Jared as deep as he could.

It was messy and wet, and Jensen had to pull off to laugh at Jared for not being able to stop his own mouth from pouring out words, endearments and curses and nonsense all in a jumble, but it was gloriously imperfect, and Jared would never not want more of Jensen. He remembered the source of his fears all in a rush, then—that he'd never be able to give this up, that he'd always anticipate more. But it was too late—the bridge was crossed, and he couldn't find any regrets in his heart.

"Will you take me to your rooms in the morning and cook for me again?" Jared asked when they were both languid with the approach of sleep.

"I'll consider it," Jensen said.

Jared smiled big and bright into the darkness. "Will you show me what hides behind that curtain?"

"I could be persuaded."

"Much in the way I persuaded you this evening?"

"Almost exactly that way," Jensen said, smile clear in his voice.

"A man should keep to what he knows," Jared said.

* * *

It had been a long stretch of time since Jared had been so green he'd let his nerves make his horse jumpy, but here he was wrestling with the reins as the beast shied at shadows and tossed his head, threatening to buck. Jared let the animal take the bit, let him run out some of their tension. He focused his attention on the trail and the feel of the horse beneath him, and when he reined the horse back in, his own mind was quieter too.

Jared kept to his routine, he cleaned the dirt of the trail off his body, clothed himself in his town garb. Pulling on his dandy's gear had always felt little different from playing with a marked deck, but that had changed somewhere along the way. Playing a role for Jensen was starting to feel real and working the ranch had become the thing he had to fake his enthusiasm for.

A shine on his boots, he didn't begrudge the time it took, and he'd already replaced the ribbon on his hat with a blue to rival the sky at midday and found a scrap of silk to match it that he'd tucked in his waistcoat pocket, and still he felt like he had grime under his nails, when he knew they were perfectly clean.

Jared was aimlessly wandering the short stretch of the town's main street. Not avoiding with intent this time, more like ambling around without trying to achieve any destination. He considered stopping in to have a ramble of a talk with the Doc. He'd taken to a lot of fruitless considering lately. Jensen's influence, he reckoned.

Jared snatched the hat off his head, scratched fiercely at his scalp, dislodging the bit of rawhide holding his hair in the process. His father had always despaired of his willingness to let his hair grow, called him a disreputable looking character more than once, and Jared had then only wanted to grow it longer, to the surprise of no one who'd ever known him at all. At some point, he'd gone on to desire more than the appearance of disreputableness than his disobedience.

He strode out, long legs giving him a purposeful look, nodding and smiling to everyone he passed. He saw Miss Cody and Miss Duncan slip inside Ackles' Mercantile, and he forbade himself to turn and follow. He was his own man now, time he behaved like it.

The barber was a quiet fellow, name of Jim, and it was time Jared made his acquaintance over something other than a glass of whiskey. Jim was a master with a blade, and Jared couldn't help but touch the smooth expanse of his cheeks after Jim had scraped him clean, slapped him to life again with some witch hazel that smelled of cloves and oranges, and bore up under Jared's insistence that he leave a decent length to his hair.

Jared headed out into the street again a new man. The leather thong that had no practical use any longer twisted in his fingers rather than in his hair. He was nervous, and the restless flex of his hands was giving him away. He tied the leather around his wrist instead, and pushed open the door to Ackles' Mercantile, the bell chiming out his arrival as it always had.

The store was hot in the summer afternoon, stifling with the scents of cloth and leather, oil and soap and the dust that no man, not even Jensen, could keep at bay. Miss Cody and Miss Duncan were poring over one of Jensen's catalogues, heads nearly touching. It looked like the big one with the illustrations of farm implements that Jensen left open on the counter as an enticement. Jensen was deep in conversation with the fellow that sold pozole off the back off a waggon down in San Rafael.

Jared wandered the aisles, staring unseeing at the merchandise, and wishing he could shoo the lot of them out the door, or turn and march out himself, something. He worried at the bit of leather on his wrist with the fingers of his other hand.

"Jared," Jensen said, and Jared whirled around.

The dirty dog had snuck up on him, and Jared was flushed with anger at that; he'd always fancied he could feel Jensen grow closer even with his back turned. "I didn't—"

"Did you—pardon me, but did you, were you here for ..." Jensen shrugged helplessly, and pulled off his glasses and worked over the lenses with his handkerchief.

"I was, that is," Jared sighed. "I was considering my plans for supper," he said, aiming for a light bit of banter and getting something that sounded aggrieved more than anything else.

Jensen smiled up at him, and then tilted his head up and grinned properly. "Considering?"

"I hear it's advisable."

"Oh, yes, I would advise it. Generally."

"A man knows when to take the advice of his betters," Jared said, and he managed a casual lean against the shelf of cooking pots he'd been staring at.

"As it happens, I have been considering things of that nature as well."

"Indeed," Jared said, and Jensen peered at him suspiciously. Jared widened his eyes and adopted the air of someone who would never stoop to mimicry. Or mockery.

"A man should look to his sustenance with care," Jensen said with a bit of a pompous air that really wasn't called for.

"There is sustenance and then there is enrichment," Jared said. "A man of science should be precise in his words."

"Once sustenance is attained, then a man may look to what else is available." Jensen carefully set his spectacles back on his nose, and then looked very carefully and consideringly at Jared, from his boots to his newly-shorn head.

Jared was taken with a hot flush, his blood pounded in his ears. Inside Jensen's mild exterior was surely the soul of an imp. Jared clutched his hat close in both hands, seeking some measure of propriety, and Jensen smiled slowly and backed up a half step. "I think I should return to my place behind the counter." He hummed as if in uncertainty and said, "I have made a reservation at the Richardson Hotel for dinner. Not a necessity, but it is sometimes a pleasure to remember the ways of less sleepy towns than this one."

"A bold move," Jared said.

"Indeed," Jensen said, and vanished down the aisle and around the corner.

Jared longed to dunk his head in the horse trough, but he was in town with his civilized manners taking root, so he merely soaked his neckerchief and wiped away the nervous sweat from his brow. He set off for the saloon, looking to give Hodge the news that he was welcome to toil on Miss Harris' behalf if he still desired it, and to lose himself in a few rounds of cards and whiskey with Kane. He made a note to see if Jensen could conjure some straight cards out of one of his catalogues.

Jared was mildly drunk when he swaggered into the hotel and dropped into the chair opposite Jensen. The drink didn't dull his appreciation of Jensen's proximity; if anything, it made it worse. He gripped the chair arm tightly, to keep from giving in to the urge to reach out and touch.

"I see how you've spent your afternoon," Jensen said evenly.

Jared peered at Jensen trying to decide if he was annoyed or merely making a show of primness. "I ended up ahead by two bits and half a bottle of whiskey."

"The half that you consumed presumably."

"Indeed," Jared said and smirked as outrageously as he could. Jensen's answering scowl made him laugh, too loud, but Jared wasn't in the mood to care.

"I should restrict you to small beer for the evening."

"You wouldn't do that, Jensen, would you? A man needs his pleasures, and you're not fixing to keep me from mine, are you?" Jared leaned forward and tried to be as earnestly imploring as he could. He'd been told he looked charmingly like an eager puppy at such times.

"Your wiles have no effect, I assure you."

"Wiles," Jared said, and sniggered. "So I should expect a cold night spent alone, then?"

"I have said nothing of the sort," Jensen said primly, and signalled the waiter with a peremptory gesture. Jared wondered again just where Jensen was from, with his propriety and his near arrogance and his passion that simmered under the surface ready to be set free with the right provocation. Jared had also been told he was good at provoking.

Dinner went a long ways towards sobering Jared up, and he was suspicious that the stuff he was drinking was small beer, and that Jensen had circumvented him and bribed the waiter to ignore Jared's orders. He was contemplating the wisdom of an hour or two in the taproom with Jensen, time to let his desires build up to white hot—Jensen's as well, no doubt. Did he want to torment them both with the anticipation, or did he want to loose the reins right quick?

Jensen took the decision out of his hands. Their plates were cleared, the bill settled, and Jensen was heading towards the taproom, Jared docilely in tow. Jensen kept on right past the taproom door; Jared could hear Morgan's rolling laughter and Doc Collins' voice rising in volume in counterpoint. Jensen turned back to Jared, let the cool mask of politeness drop from his face, and said, "I require an escort this evening."

Jared stepped forward, pushed open the exterior door, and swept his hat in a dramatic gesture. "As you wish," he said and flashed a grin.

"You would be well advised to maintain that attitude of accommodation," Jensen said as he strode through the door and turned towards his meagre home.

Jared sauntered along beside him, hands shoved in his pockets, hat tilted at a jaunty angle, and considered his chances of seeing behind the curtain to Jensen's bedroom. He reckoned they were very favourable indeed.

One slight shove against his chest, and Jared was sprawled over the entirety of Jensen's bed. Jared grinned up at Jensen who stood carefully cleaning his glasses before setting them on a high shelf. Jared aimed his hat at the doorway and crowed in triumph when it landed to dangle off the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

Jensen merely shook his head and proceeded to carefully remove his coat and hang it in a small wardrobe wedged into a corner beside a rough-sawn bookshelf. He stepped to the foot of the bed and slid his suspenders off his shoulders.

Jared really liked Jensen's shoulders. He wanted to watch Jensen, who was working loose his cuffs and collar, but he wanted to rid himself of his own constricting garments too. He scrabbled at buttons and fasteners at random, getting his waistcoat open, and his trousers, and then attacking his shirt buttons with vigour, but not much coordination.

"Always wise to start with the boots," Jensen said, and then he gripped Jared's ankle and lifted his leg until he could draw the boot off and set it carefully aside. "And if I do it, nothing ends up sailing on the air." Jensen pulled off Jared's other boot, and then he caught up Jared's hands and pulled him upright long enough to divest him of his waistcoat and shirt. Another ungentle shove sent him flat again.

Jared wriggled free of his trousers and defiantly tossed them onto the floor and watched Jensen sigh dramatically and bend to pick them up, before he shucked his own. Drawers were all that stood between them, and they were easy enough to dispose of. Jensen flashed a full on grin and tossed his over his shoulder.

"I have corrupted the great Jensen Ackles," Jared crowed in triumph.

"Fully, completely, with no hope of redemption," Jensen said and crawled up Jared's body.

The room was hot and close with the dust of the dozens of books and smoke from an oil lantern hung high on the wall. Jensen's body was hot, skin slick with sweat, and Jared could just spend his days here, lost in the sensation of skin and flesh and heat, of Jensen, and Jensen's fingers dragging through his newly-shorn hair.

His hands fit on Jensen's body in a way he might describe as perfect if he had a little more liquor in him. His fingers curved around Jensen's ass, his back, the broad sweep of his shoulders, the hard curve of his thighs. Jared's mouth feasted, tongue seeking nipples and lips and the line of hip and the proud hard length of his dick. "Never not want," Jared said, words pressed into skin, and Jensen moaned in response.

They slept for a time in the deepest, coolest part of the night, but Sunday dawned bright and hot. Jared declared the day fit for the examination of sin, not the discussion of it. They managed sloth and lust in equal portion and Jared was as drunk on pleasure on the ride back to the Harris ranch as he'd been on whiskey a fortnight earlier.

* * *

Aldis had shown up midweek and impressed Miss Harris with his riding and his manners honed on working the railway for the years since he'd quit the rodeo. She took him on, and Jared pointed him at the German end of the bunkhouse, and they barely had time to pass a word for the rest of the week.

Jared liked to ride solo to town on Saturdays, gave him time to be with his own thoughts, and since most of his fellows were keeping their pay under their mattresses and weren't looking to share with the saloon keeper, or the girls upstairs, he usually had his way. Hodge, he couldn't duck out on. Jared had to make conversation on the trail, and consequently had to agree to an afternoon of cards with the boys. It wasn't like Jensen would be anywhere but behind his counter, but Jared found pleasure in bearding the caged beast in its den. It added to the sweet anticipation.

Jared left his horse next to Aldis' in the livery stable and headed for the hotel. He'd been adamant in his need to wash off the trail dust and spruce up, and he advised Aldis to try that tack with Beth while he was waiting for his language skills to develop.

Chuck was heading towards the Sheriff's office with a purposeful stride, damn near bowled Jared over on the way into the hotel, in fact. On the way out, decked out in his usual gear and tarted up with a paisley neckerchief in blue and green, Jared saw both Doc Collins and Sheriff Morgan hurrying over to the telegraph office.

Jared was sorely tempted to drop into Ackles' Mercantile and see if any gossip had wandered in its door. He had promised Aldis, though, so he sauntered on over to the saloon and had a big old JT smile on his face for Kane and Hodge and all the boys, and they had the usual friendly insults to trade back.

Kane had a way of needing to sit with his back to the wall, and Jared had a bit of a reputation as an easy-going fellow, so he was the man left to take the seat that put the whole bar over his shoulder, with Kane tucked back in the shadows. It never made any difference to Jared; he was of the mind that the level in the whiskey bottle mattered more to his playing than any chance to catch an expression other than a sneer on Kane's face. The crowd in the bar was bigger than usual, but the day was hot enough to tempt any man out of the sun a might early.

The bottles, one by Jared's left elbow and one nestled right close to Kane, were about even, and the pile of coins in front of each of them was about the same as well. They'd elected to have Hodge and the freshest faced innocent to ever grace a table, excepting Anton of course, join them for the game. Mr. Chris Pine was turning out to be less fresh than advertised, and at present, he had the bulk of their coin safe between his elbows. Jared was ignoring the whiskey in favour of plotting to get some of that pile a little closer again.

Like all the rest of the stores fronting Main Street, the saloon had a back door that let out onto the alley behind. No one used it much, unless they needed to get upstairs without any witnesses, and it was that thought that struck Jared first when he saw Jensen slip inside. He recovered from that unlikely fancy quick enough when Jensen, who'd been eyeing up the rowdy crowd with a look of serious annoyance, spotted Jared and headed right for him.

Jared stared in shock as Jensen strode uncaring through a puddle of a sticky and unpleasant nature and pushed aside a couple of drunks to end up leaning on their table, lips a bare inch from Jared's ear. "Listen to me," he said, voice low and urgent. "You need to get the hell out of here, all of you do, but _you_ are coming with me right now."

Jared grinned, thinking it a bit of a joke, or Jensen's way of telling him he'd had enough anticipating for one week, but the door behind Jared's left shoulder crashed open, and Kane's face took on a look that came close to fear. Jared stood up, shaking off Jensen's clutching hand in the process, and found himself facing the man who had stopped just inside the door. He was also facing the gun the man had pointed right at Jared's chest.

He had the look of an outlaw, and one who'd been riding hard in a bid to outrun the law. Sweat soaked the band of his hat, dust coated his trousers and boots, and the gun in his hand didn't waver. Jared believed the Old West was in the past. This wasn't Tombstone or some rough-hewn mining town full of outlaws and chancers. But the Old West had just burst in the door and made a fool out of him and his beliefs.

He heard Jensen behind him, heard him say some quiet words to Kane, and heard Anton's name in Kane's answer, but the full sense of it never made it past the pounding of blood in his ears. Jared kept his eyes on the gun, and tried to keep them on the man's face at the same time. He looked wild and desperate, willing to do anything he had to do, and Jared had no doubt there _was_ some lawman or posse chasing him. All he could hope was for Morgan to make a rare visit to the saloon and end this without Jared staining the floor with his blood.

Someone drunk and intemperate called out from over near the bar, "Hey, Black Pete—that's Black Pete—busted out of the jail down at San Rafael."

Jared had his hands up, hovering by his head, and he couldn't remember raising them, but he had Black Pete's full regard despite the distractions of the crowd.

"Quite the little game you all got going on there, boys," he said. "I think I might just need you to hand over that coin, and anything else y'all have on hand. Once that's seen to, we're going to discuss who's got the fastest horse in this here town. Would that be you there, young dandy?"

"That's not quite how this is going to play out."

Jared turned his head only after Black Pete had. Jensen was standing a few feet to his left, gaze locked tight on their new arrival, gun in his outstretched hand and held with a casual, unwavering ease, aimed at the centre of Black Pete's chest. It was Jensen who'd spoken, and Jared hadn't even known the voice, quiet, cold as the heart of the Devil, but hard as steel.

That was Anton's fancy little gun in his hand, Jared realized, just as he realized that Jensen wasn't still, either. He was slowly moving, gliding across the floor, mesmerizing Black Pete, and every other man in the place. He was turning the man, drawing him away so that his line of fire was away from Jared and the table of players behind him.

"No?" Pete sneered, not seeming to realize that he was turning but keeping his gun aimed at Jensen's head. "Tell me how it is then, Mister. Tell me why I shouldn't plug you through the eyes right now?"

"You're not going to pull the trigger, friend. Not today. Today you're going to watch my bullet find your heart, and then your immortal soul will be the Devil's to do with as he sees fit." Jensen had delivered the words in the same quiet voice he'd used before, but they had the ring of frequent use to them, and a familiarity that tugged at Jared's memory.

Black Pete flourished his gun at Jensen and spat out, "Who the hell do you think you are, townie? You think you can talk to me like that and live—"

"Holy hell and damnation," the same half-cut fellow who'd named Pete for them all called out. "That's Ross Winchester. Jesus Christ, he's a stone-cold killer."

Pete glanced aside, and Jensen slid forward another half step, he was within the range of even the worst revolver now, and Anton's wasn't the worst. He had a smile on his face that could freeze the warmest heart, and he was staring at Pete like he'd just found the thing he wanted most in the world. Jared felt his heart hammer harder, his palms were sweaty, he felt hot, like it was midday, not an hour after sundown. Jensen wanted to kill this man, and Jared had heard of Ross Winchester, and those words, so easily they'd slipped out of Jensen's mouth, they were Winchester's signature.

"Nah," Pete said, "Can't be. Winchester ain't some slick little city boy like you, son. You're just some gent from back East, thinks he's a hard man, but I'm going to be ending your trip west, right soon."

"If you want to believe that, Black Pete, I can't stop you," Jensen said.

Pete threw back his head and laughed, and Jared saw him take a firmer hand on his gun under cover of the laughter. He focused on Jensen again, and Jared opened his mouth to yell, distract Pete, warn Jensen, something, but the sound of a shot stilled Jared's words. Pete staggered back, his gun hand limp, the gun clattering to the floor as he dropped to his knees. Jensen had hit him right in the shoulder, missing his heart but leaving his arm useless. Jensen's gun was cocked and aimed as steady as ever at the outlaw's chest.

"Want me to end your trip to town, Black Pete." Jensen gave the name an inflection of disdain Jared had once heard him use to describe a shipment of crockery that didn't meet his standards.

Jared could see the man he knew, thought he'd known, shimmering under the surface of Ross Winchester's deadly serious calm. Anger was washing the fear from Jared's blood, and he took a long step, then another, and kicked Pete's gun into a corner. Some scavenger could collect it up. "He's down, Jensen, leave him for Morgan," Jared said.

"Is that what I should do, Jared, leave him for the law to clean up?" Jensen's voice was still hard, but Jared fancied the chill had warmed a tad.

"Yeah, Jensen, that's what you should do."

"It's quite a feeling, killing a man, taking his last breath with your bullet. You know anything about that, Jared?" Jensen stepped forward and the barrel of Anton's revolver shifted up to fix on the target of Pete's forehead. He was slumped down to the floor, clutching his shoulder with his good hand, blood welling around his fingers. He might die from the blood loss if this standoff continued. "A man can get a taste for it, if he's not careful. It stops being about keeping your reputation, stops being about who's the fastest draw and the best shot."

"Jensen, you don't want that taste, you don't want that anymore," Jared said, pleading with Jensen, or maybe himself, for the words to be true.

"No? You sure about that? I had that taste. Blood on my lips. It's heady wine, but it's been a while, a good long while."

Some of the regulars were calling for Jensen, for Ross Winchester, to finish off their uninvited guest. They were the hell hounds baying for more blood, and Jared didn't know if he could shout loud enough to be heard over them. "Make it a little longer," Jared said, quietly. "A good while longer."

The door behind Pete swung open and Morgan followed the long barrel of his rifle in through the door. Jared could see Doc Collins behind him, medical bag in one hand, revolver in the other. "What's going on, boys?" Morgan said softly, his deep voice cutting through the chatter.

"Stranger in town, Sheriff," Jensen said.

"I see that, son. I think you can let me take him now."

"That's Jared's thinking on the matter as well, Sheriff." Jensen's mouth curved the barest fraction, and Jared felt sweet relief start to sweep over him. Not too soon, please, Lord, let it be not too soon.

The movement was so swift and smooth, that it was a blur. Jensen stepped back, and he twirled Anton's gun up and around and, had he a holster, it would have gone in in an eye blink. Instead, he flipped the gun in the air again, caught it by the barrel and extended the thing towards Anton, not even flinching at the heat that must still be in the metal.

Anton stepped up and took it while Morgan got a grip on Pete's good arm and hustled him out the door. The Doc covered them both as they left, and would no doubt make sure Pete lived to meet the hangman. Jared turned back in time to see the back door close on Jensen's departure.

Jared pushed through the crowd, shaking off Kane's hand and ignoring his shouted questions, as he made his way out the same door Jensen had used to make his escape. The alley, a dusty track strewn with refuse, was empty. Jared strode along, keeping an eye out for any sign of movement, any indication of where Jensen had gone. The store was the most likely place, but the windows were all dark, and no one answered his pounding on the back door. It wasn't much of a door, Jared was sure he could kick it in, but then do what? Lie in wait?

Jared's head was aching worse than anything drink had ever done to him. His heart had finally stepped back to a more reasonable rhythm, and he felt like he'd gone a few rounds with an unbroken stallion. He'd never had time to be afraid that Black Pete was going to kill him, but the minutes the outlaw had had his gun pointed at Jensen had seemed an eternity. Jared leaned on Jensen's door, closed his eyes and let the sounds of the town come to him. There were voices, faint and distant, from the direction of the Sheriff's office, and a few rapid footsteps sounded down the wooden sidewalk on the other side of the buildings. The excitement was over and most folks were seeking the security of their beds for the rest of the night.

Jared pushed upright, and swiped his hat off his head, spun it on his fingers for a moment and then made his way to the hotel. He looked up at the sky, the deep indigo showed a few stars, but the moon was in hiding. He looked over toward the church, hunched off by the trees, and he could just see the white steeple almost glowing. He could pass the night with Gil, wouldn't be the first time. The livery was only a few yards past the hotel, he could just mount up and go, but he pushed open the hotel door, and avoided the night clerk on his way upstairs.

The lamp burned low in his room. Jared tossed his hat, watched it spin and come to rest on the bedpost, the bright silk and absurd feather looked garish in the yellow light.

Jensen didn't look up. He was in the chair in the corner, studying his silver watch, running the chain through his fingers. He'd lost his coat somewhere, and his waistcoat was open, his sleeves rolled up. The usual stiff set of his shoulders, the upright posture that Jared had seen melt away only in the most intimate of their moments together, was gone. It was replaced with a thrumming tension, motion, maybe violence, barely contained. The slip of the chain through fingers would have been a hell of a tell at the poker table.

"Morgan going to come looking for you?" Jared asked. He was leaning against a door again, and he reached down blind and threw the bolt. This wasn't much of a door either.

Jensen looked up finally, lines tight around his eyes, and his mouth pursed in what looked like pain. "For winging the guy he was after?"

"No, not that."

"Ah, I see. No, Ross Winchester doesn't have a bounty on his head, never been on any wanted poster. He was an honourable gunfighter." Jensen said the last with a twist of his lips, his disdain apparent.

"And what is that exactly?"

Jensen laughed bitterly. "Damned if I know. First time I ever put a bullet in a man, I was near to shitting myself and was a breath away from being the body in the casket the next day. Don't even know why the fellow drew on me. Wasn't always so cut and dried after that. Men came looking, and I let 'em find me."

"Until you decided to pretend to be Jensen Ackles?" Jared said softly. He felt like it had been Jensen who'd ended up shot in the saloon, that Jensen was dead, and Jared thought he should sit down on the floor and mourn him until the sun rose and it was time to plant him in the ground next to Gil.

"I was always Jensen Ackles. Long before anybody ever picked up a dime novel and read about the daring exploits of Ross Winchester, there was a Jensen Ackles just going about his business."

"But not quite the one that I thought I knew."

Jensen leaned back in his chair, fixed his steady gaze on Jared. Assessing, weighing, never looking away. "You _are_ angry," he said.

"Damn straight, I'm angry, Jensen." Jared pushed off the door, tried to pace on the stretch of floor that was between him and the bed, let his voice rise, let his fists clench. "You've been having a good laugh over this? Making me fall for your act, which was a damn good act, by the way. You proud that you fooled the dumb yokel?"

"Yokel? Now who's kidding who, here. What the hell do you think I do all the damn week in this town? I've heard every variation on every bit of gossip about every damn person who's ever breathed in the dust hereabouts. You think I haven't heard all about JT Padalecki? Haven't heard about your string of innocent young things, the ones you seduce and then leave? You think I don't know all about the one you had to plant in the ground with your own two hands, and the fellow you put a bullet in when you still had grave dirt under your fingernails?"

"Go to hell, Jensen, just go straight to hell," Jared hollered. Angry and shaking and feeling the blood drain from his face.

"Hell, I will. That's why you like the innocent ones, right, JT? Don't want anyone looking at you and knowing how it feels to take a man's life with nothing but ice in your heart. Don't want anyone knowing how that feels, how terrible it feels, how good it feels." Jensen stood up, the lightning fast move catching Jared off guard, and he had Jared's shirt in his fist. He shoved and then reeled Jared in again. "I know what you've done, and I know how it feels, Jared."

Jared closed his eyes, not wanting to see Jensen showing so much feeling, so alive with anger and frustration. There might be some shame in there too, like there was in Jared's soul, shame for the things he'd done, and the part he'd played in others' deeds. Jensen wasn't talking, wasn't letting him go, either, and Jared had nothing to say. He knew that JT was a coat he wore some days when the chill of his own recollections got to be too much. He knew the man he'd shown to Jensen hadn't ever been quite real.

A peremptory knock sounded at the door, and the voice of the hotel manager raised in alarm followed, calling his name. Jared didn't move. He let Jensen release him and push him away, let him slide the bolt and open the door.

"Ah, Mr. Ackles, sir, I had not realized—we've had complaints you see, and—it's the noise, sir."

"We were discussing," Jensen said in the same cold, deadly voice he'd used on Black Pete, "the merits of American broadcloth over the finer English weaves. I'm afraid that sort of thing lends itself to a passionate exchange."

The manager stammered out some words, and Jensen shut the door in his face, sent the bolt home again.

Jared undid his waistcoat, threw it aside, and sat on the end of the bed to pull of his boots and fling them into a corner, heedless of the scuffs he was putting on the leather. He fell back against the bed and blocked the lantern light with his forearm. The bed shifted as Jensen sat down beside him.

"Was any of it real?" Jared said, when the silence had worked his nerves for too long.

"Some things you can't fake."

Jared thought about all the things you could fake, given a talent for prevarication.

"I would have killed him, if you hadn't been there," Jensen said softly.

"Law's going to do it for you."

"That why you shot that fellow? 'Cause the law wouldn't hang him for you?"

Jared opened his mouth to say yes. He would have on any day before this one if anyone had asked that question. Jensen never had asked, never called any of his bluffs, never once tried to get a look at his hand. "No," he said and left it at that. He didn't think Jensen needed to ask if it had made him feel any better, either. He had another go at the question he'd already asked. "You did a good job of playing the man who didn't quite know what to do with another man's dick."

Jensen laughed, and it still sounded bitter. "Wasn't too far from the truth," he said and then, more quietly, "I don't take to people real well, most times."

"It wasn't just a game," Jared said. "It was at first but not—it changed."

"Keeps on changing."

Jared wanted to say that it had changed too much, wanted to hang on to his anger and his chagrin at being caught out. But he was feeling too much that was familiar, the heat from Jensen's body, the comfortable scent of him, just the feel of him sitting so close. Jared's blood was up again, not the fear he'd barely kept a rein on in the saloon, but a deep thrum of anticipation.

He thought of the wild horses he'd seen once back in Texas, full-grown spirited animals, not a colt bred for ranch work and seduced to the saddle before it knew how to object. He'd been goaded into trying to break the lead stallion, and there'd been no illusion of control there, the stallion had had it all. Jared had just been along for the ride, a joyful and a fearful thing, holding on to an animal that powerful, and he'd known up there on that horse's back that the deal was break it or die trying. He'd broken it in the end, and the triumph had tasted bitter in his mouth, but he'd wanted to do it again all the same. Even when he'd thought Jensen was more of a skittish colt he needed to coax to his hand, he'd still felt some bit of that same thrill.

This Jensen, now, he was some other order of man than what Jared had taken him for, and since Jared wasn't the sort to back down from a challenge, he said, "Why don't you show me what it's like when you're not playing coy."

Jensen twisted around, looked down at Jared. Jared dropped his arm away from his eyes and stared frankly back.

"You sure that's what you want?" Jensen said, and Jared heard the doubt under the goad, reckoned Jensen wasn't so sure he wanted Jared to see all the way down to the bottom.

Jared twisted away, got to his feet and added his shirt and his trousers to the mess on the floor. He stood naked in front of Jensen, stroking himself casually, watching Jensen watch him with sharp eyes. He stood up tall, threw his shoulders back a little, let his eyes roam over Jensen without any playing coy on his own part for once.

Jensen smiled, easy and knowing and more than a little sly. He got to his feet, started shedding the rest of his clothes, and Jared looked at him with the scales off his eyes, and saw a man almost as big and strong as he was, a man that would only need to know one or two dirty tricks to best him in a fight. This wasn't a fight, but the dirty tricks might still come in handy. They stared at each other across the expanse of the bed, neither making the first move. Jared watched Jensen's eyes and his hands; his right hand flexed as if he needed that watch chain to soothe his nerves, that, or a revolver at his hip.

They could hold this standoff forever, Jared realized. He nodded to the bed and said, "Meet you in the middle?"

They were both of them naked and in the middle of the bed, but Jared didn't know the steps of this new dance. They were close enough that a breath could have them touching, but he didn't know how to begin. Jensen watched him, wary or assessing, and then he touched Jared's hair, brushing his fingertips against the shorn ends. "Why did you cut it?" he asked.

Jared searched for an answer, not sure just what the right thing or the clever thing to say would be. Jensen tilted Jared's head, an impersonal touch, nothing Jim hadn't done when he'd had him in the barber's chair. Jensen held Jared's head still, and he leaned in enough to kiss Jared's lips, lightly, questioningly. Jared didn't have an answer for that either.

"I was shocked when I saw it all gone," Jensen said.

"You could have fooled me," Jared said, and Jensen gave him a long, considering look, nothing unfamiliar in that, and it told Jared he needed to find some better answers.

"Sometimes," Jared said, "a man has to make his own decisions."

Jensen frowned, looked a little sceptical, but didn't say anything. This was a test, Jared realized, a test to see if he could say anything at all that was true. "I used to use that mess of hair to prove to my daddy just how ornery I was." Jensen's lips curved into a slight smile, a little wry twist. "Then I just plain liked how it made me look like a bit of a bad sort."

"A warning," Jensen said. "More subtle than a pearl-handled colt."

"Not one anyone took seriously," Jared said, and Jensen slid his thumb down across Jared's face and pressed into where one of his dimples would be if he'd been of a mind to smile, and Jared couldn't dispute his point. He'd always cursed his boyish face as much as he appreciated the things it helped him get. It might be that he'd been looking to get his daddy to take him seriously back then. "I looked around that morning, couldn't see my daddy anywhere, so I decided to please myself."

Jensen moved his hands to Jared's neck, pulled him forward and kissed him again. A few hours earlier, and Jared would have fallen back onto the bed, pulled Jensen with him, given the other man the illusion of control.

"Do you miss it?" Jared said. They were so close his lips brushed Jensen's face when he spoke. Too close to see each other clearly.

"Being Ross Winchester, you mean?" Jensen said.

Jared moved his head in a fractional nod, and Jensen squeezed his hands tighter against Jared's neck, pulling him closer until they were chest to chest. Jared wrapped his hands around Jensen's hips, held on.

Jensen rested his head against Jared's shoulder, spoke his words into the side of Jared's neck. "There's a moment in a gunfight, lasts for a half a breath and feels like a whole of a day. It's the point when you haven't pulled the trigger yet, but you're going to, when the other fellow hasn't shot you yet, but he might. It becomes the sweetest taste, that moment. Sweeter than honey, sweet like laudanum, and you start to anticipate it, start to always want it."

It sounded like the moment when you climbed up on the wild horse to Jared. "There are many kinds of pleasures," Jared said, and he touched his tongue to Jensen's skin, "many tastes."

"A man should take his pleasure where he finds it?" Jensen said with a touch of the old sceptical amusement in his tone.

"Something like that." Jared unwound himself from Jensen, and Jensen let go, let Jared drop back onto the bad. Jared stretched out, arms over his head, and didn't make a move to pull Jensen after him. He tried to imagine Jensen's sweet moment of possibilities, and his own yearning for a wild ride that didn't have to end. Jared arched his back and smiled at Jensen's reaction. There was something to be said for a man who could gift you with a frank appraisal, something a little more satisfying than a coy little blush. Jared felt a little buoyed up by that thought, and he tried on a jauntier tone. "You haven't fucked me yet," he said, "but you're going to, and I haven't fucked you, but I might."

Jensen laughed, "And you're not fixing to show me how ornery you can be if I try it?"

Jared gave Jensen a long considering look, estimated the chances that Jensen knew enough of those dirty tricks and was a spirited enough animal that Jared could never break him even if his ornery nature did take over. "I'm making no promises," he said. "Enough of this jawing, Jensen, get down here so we can get to the divvying up of all that pleasure."


End file.
